Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder . . .
―Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Alice
I really need to work on my word choices and delivery.
“Say again?” he asked, his coffee cup stopping in mid-air.
“Oh my God, that’s not what I meant!” I said, walking fast over to him. “I didn’t phrase that right.”
He put the cup down, both brows raised.
“I love staying here, but it’s important that I have some time that’s just mine,” I said, my hands snaking around his muscled torso while I gazed up at him. I wondered if I’d ever be able to get over how masculine and stunning he was. “It would be easy—too easy—to meld my life into yours, without bothering to make something that was my own. I’ve only been here for a couple of months.”
His expression relaxed, one of his arms draping around me.
“That’s fine, but you do realize you already have your own life, right?”
I shrugged. “Well, the start of one,” I said.
His mouth quirked. “Alice, you’ve been here the equivalent of a half minute and already you’re settling into grad school, got a half decent place to live, and your own crew. Most people who come to the city? It takes them years to find what you already have.”
I grimaced. “Most of that is my sister’s doing. She did all the heavy lifting.”
“Dixie, this can be a place where everyone is out for themselves,” he said, cupping my face in his hands, which always made my belly flutter. “So, whether it’s from your sister or me or whoever, someone offers you help—assuming it’s not some fucker—you take it.”
His phone beeped from an incoming text. He eyed the screen. “Alright, Omar’s downstairs,” he said, grabbing both my bags and walking us to the elevator. “Do your thing, but I want you back here, in my bed, by the weekend at the latest.”
We got in the elevator and I noticed he was suppressing a grin.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Uh no, it’ll only piss you off.”
The elevator dinged and he gestured for me to exit first.
“C’mon, you can’t do that,” I said, bumping him with my shoulder as we walked to the waiting car. “I promise, I won’t get mad.”
He guffawed. “I’m not falling for that trap, honey,” he said as he opened the front door of the gallery, giving Omar a quick, half wave.
“Have a productive day, Dixie,” he winked.
I used my body to block him from the car door handle.
I crossed my arms and arched a brow.
He didn’t hesitate, getting right in my space, our bodies barely touching. My nipples pebbled under my shirt, just having him close.
But he didn’t have to know that. So, I craned my head up and squared my shoulders. He tried not to laugh. I narrowed my gaze.
His bit the corner of his bottom lip, as he bent down and let his lips brush against the shell of my ear. I shivered, his warm breath on my neck.
So much for tough-girl game.
“Later on, when you find yourself craving my mouth and my dick, and touching yourself isn’t giving you the relief that little body needs, I don’t want you to let pride get in the way of coming back to me sooner than you expected.”
“Wow, someone’s sure of himself,” I mumbled, moving out of the way. He opened my car door. I folded myself in. He placed my bags near my feet.
“I am sure. You want to know why?”
I gave him my best stink eye.
His eyes locked with mine. “Because I’m going to be feeling the exact same way. Nothing but you is going to relieve that ache.”
My lips parted, the blood in my veins turning into my favorite drug, making me high.
“You are?” I whispered.
He sucked in the air. “Oh yeah, I’m falling fast, right along with you.”
His office smelled like Vicks vapor rub and clove cigarettes.
I didn’t even know they still made clove cigarettes.
I was also guessing he was living under the assumption that the university’s no-smoking policy didn’t apply to him.
Must be nice to be a white, entitled and tenured male.
Whatever. I was in his world for now. At least he wasn’t smoking. I’d heard he liked to light up and blows smoke rings at students he found irritating.
He coughed, then pounded on the middle of his chest a couple of times as he sat across from me. Most of the baby boomers I knew didn’t look their age. The generation known for never trusting anyone over thirty had redefined aging, most looking like they were permanently in their forties or fifties.
Not so for Professor Bails. He looked ninety and sounded like a walking death rattle.
He had my case study journal, my paper outline, and the questionnaire I had to fill out to gain admittance into his seminar on his lap. He also had an ancient cassette recorder on the table between us, which he used instead of transcribing notes by hand. After hitting record and introducing me, he was finally ready.
“So, this is our second session, Ms. Leighton. I’ve had a chance to review your case study notes and then re-read your entrance questionnaire. Can you tell me why I would do that?”
“You’re doing an informal comparative analysis, trying to determine if there are any psychosexual patterns or proclivities surfacing,” I said, reminding myself to breathe. He actually was a lovely man, but I was still nervous.
He offered a warm smile with a nod. “Yes, exactly,” he said, then clearing his throat. “You know, one of the reasons why I accepted you, a first year, into my seminar was because I was fascinated by how few partners you’ve had and by the lack of experimentation.”
Silly me, I thought it was because I was one of the top students graduating from my master’s program.
“Oh, okay. I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I blurted out, sounding like someone who couldn’t find my ass with both hands in my back pockets.
“It’s not a criticism, Ms. Leighton.” He was quick to try and reassure me. “It’s atypical, but nothing I’m concerned about, per se. Do you have any insight you’d like to share?”
I’d like to share a slap upside your head, you old goat.
Why did I push so hard to be in his seminar again?
“Well, I’ve always thought iconic social theorist, Cher Horowitz, had the
right idea. When questioned about the same personal anomaly, she stated “I’m not a prude. I’m just highly selective. You see how picky I am about my shoes, and those only go on my feet.’”
The man’s mouth actually fell open, like an unhinged barn door.
Serves him right. Besides, Cher from Clueless rocks.
“I’m not familiar with her work,” he said. “Perhaps you can bring by some of her publications? I like to stay current, if I can.”
I almost felt bad for sassing him. Almost.
“Sure thing.”
“Go on, you were saying,” he said, scooting his chair forward.
I shrugged. “You’ve read my profile, so you and I both know my penchant for limited sexual partners and experiences derives from having a mother who has high thresholds for both. Add in some classic daddy abandonment issues, and I was destined to either be the way I am or working a pole.”
He had his elbow on the arm rest and cradled his head on his thumb and forefinger. “And you know I had no issue with either directive, as long as they’re conscious choices which serve your development and actualization. But I am taking note that yours is a more reactionary pattern. You also tend to gravitate towards men who are older and already established. Again, you like what you like, as one does.”
I smiled, not knowing what to say.
“It also seems you and your current partner are sexually compatible?”
Oh yeah, you could say that.
“Yes, we are. Very much so,” I said, my thighs clenching at the memory.
“Good. Wonderful!” he said. “Then, my directive for you, over the next couple of weeks, will be to discuss each other’s sexual histories and determine if there’s something you two want to explore together. Is this an open relationship or monogamous?”
“Monogamous,” I said.
“Fine. I also want you to delve into your sexual fantasies, at your speed and comfort level, to determine if there are any you want to explore individually or with your partner.”
I jotted down some notes: share sex histories, fantasies.
“Sure beats algebra homework,” I muttered to myself.
He laughed. “I’m sure,” he said, hitting the stop button. “I’ll see you in two weeks. And remember . . .”
I was already up, hoisting my bag over my shoulder. “Yes, professor?”
He handed me back my case study journal. “I don’t care what you do or with whom, but I want to see you outside your comfort zone. In fact, I’m going to insist on it.”